


Lies and Secrets

by Thimblerig



Series: The Lion and the Serpent [33]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Author Regrets Life Choices, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-09
Updated: 2017-06-09
Packaged: 2018-11-11 13:47:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11149689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thimblerig/pseuds/Thimblerig
Summary: "They're gone."





	Lies and Secrets

**Author's Note:**

> This is extremely unlikely to make sense if you haven't been keeping track of the series as a whole, and is also hella spoilery.

_One week ago. The Red Dovecote._

With exquisite care, Aramis stalked across the cobbles of the inn’s courtyard, a long, knobby stick in his left hand, a shorter in his right. He crossed the two sticks in front of him in a painstakingly slow salute and began the movements of a formal drill in a two-handed style, the ‘main-gauche’ in his right hand held low and back, ready to catch a blade while his lead hand attacked.

“Still fighting lefty,” Porthos observed, from the high window where he observed the yard. “He’s good at faking it.” At that speed, the weapon held low, one couldn’t observe the weakness in his right side without knowing what to look for.

“Aren’t we all?” said Athos drily, resting his elbow on the sill and watching Aramis chase his shadow across the cobbles.

Porthos eyed him askance. “What’s that supposed to mean?” Below them, d’Artagnan, long and lithe, retrieved two sticks of his own from the woodpile and joined in, in a mime of attack and retreat.

“You met Constance at Le Havre, you said.”

“So?”

“The last time,” said Athos mildly, “that d’Artagnan received a letter from his wife, it was all he could talk about for days. Anecdotes from Paris, her new dress, the minor cold she’d had but shaken off, the health of the Royal family, paens on her beauty and cleverness and kindness… But not this time.”

“She did not give me a letter,” Porthos said primly.

Athos blew through his nose. “When has the keeping of secrets helped us, brother?”

Porthos’ jaw tightened. “I’m not doing this for fun.” But he didn’t shake off the Captain’s hand, come to rest on his shoulder and squeezing lightly. “Neither of those two need to fret right now,” he added, nodding downward.

“Alright.”

“Your cozening games don’t work on me, Athos, they never have.”

“No, you’re far too sensible.”

“Damn you,” said Porthos, without heat. In the courtyard, d’Artagnan, with infinite slowness, mimed a kick at the fork between Aramis’ legs, who in turn doubled over as slow as dripping honey, mugging for the audience. The innkeeper’s daughter, a gap-toothed little girl with her straw-blonde hair covered by a white cap, giggled at the pair of them. “Do you really want to go down this road, Athos?”

 

_Two weeks ago. Near Le Havre_

There was nothing like a good rage to clear one’s mood. Porthos, in the little grove outside the quarantine camp, threw rocks, picked up decaying tree-trunks and broke them on his knee, bellowed at the moon… he let his rage and his fear for the men trapped inside walk free for a time. Then he packed it all away, brushed the splinters off his leather breeches and armoured jacket, and walked down the little path to Constance’s little pony-cart.

She waited by it, her face sour as curdled milk.

And with her were two soldiers, French, unkempt - their hair in long straggles and their cheeks unshaven. They were unarmed, but one of them had a grip on Constance’s hair, and the other held her wrists. The woman held herself still as a powder keg with the fuse already lit.

_“You know Constance,” Porthos apostrophized. “For the weapon-training she’s had, she’s brilliant. But she just doesn’t have the body mass to win an arm wrestle.”_

The soldier with the gall to touch Constance’s hair, Porthos knew him slightly, a Sergeant of Fusiliers by the name of Durand. “So here’s what’s going to happen,” Durand said to Porthos. “You’re gonna sit up front an’ drive the cart and us an’ the missus will sit in back under the tarp so there’s no funny business. An’ after you’ve got us through the blockade on the road, we can all go our separate ways cheerful like, an’ nobody gets hurt at all.”

The other, still hiding behind Constance, said, in a prissy, posh accent, “We are _not_ going to shiver in that miasma-ridden hell-hole until we get sick so the Spanish -”

“Language, Henri.”

“So the Spanish... _Queen_ can keep her brother's name clean."

“You know the rules,” Constance hissed, low and furious. “You have shelter and food and care, and all you have to do is stay put a little longer. You really want this _spreading?”_ Her voice cracked in her rage. “You unpatriotic, festering sons of -”

Durand covered her mouth and said, “We’ve given too much of our lives to this,” he told Porthos simply. “I could die in battle for France. I would’ve. But I’m not dying of the _peste_ so a foreign Queen c’n climb over my body in her little white shoes. I can’t do it. We won’t. What’ll it be, _Lieutenant?”_

It was then that Constance bit him.

_“It was a little flinch but it was enough,” Porthos told Athos soberly. “She threw her weight to the side and that opened up Henri, enough so I could shoot him. Then she got her hands free and her hidden knife out. I told you she was brilliant - right up under the ribs into his heart.”_

_“And then?”_

_Porthos’ mouth tightened._

“You alright, Constance?”

“None of it’s my blood,” she answered shakily, bending over to free a fold of cloth from the branch it was caught on. “I’m just so angry that I let them sneak up on me.”

“We’ll get you back to an inn at Le Havre, a hot bath’ll see you right.”

“You know the rules,” she said, face hidden in the inky shadows. “Three weeks from the last case. And Henri’s blood is on me.”

“Constance...”

“Don't you worry,” she said, her voice becoming cheerful, “I'll sit it out in the groundkeeper's hut. It'll be a chance to get off my feet: very restful.” She was a terrible liar: he knew she'd be in the wards making herself useful before the night was over. “You tell my husband I'm on the Queen's Business and nothing more, for he doesn't need to worry. Give him a kiss from me, mind, it's tradition.”

“Ah, well,” said Porthos, his voice going husky. “Maybe I can make him blush this time.”

She surprised herself into a laugh. “And tell Aramis he did so very well.” She thought a little and added, “Devil luck and all. You tell him exactly that.” She shook her cloak over her bloodstained dress. “You heard Lieutenant Grenouille, it's burning out. So I'll see you in three weeks minus two days,” she said briskly, “and if it happens I - well, you can make up something pretty. Swear you will.”

“Constance, you can beat this,” Porthos said quietly. “I had it when I was a kid.”

“Of course I can,” she said, standing up and tossing her head.

“Spare me from self-sacrificing women,” he growled.

“Swear!”

She made a courtesy to him, very deep and straight backed, proud as any court lady, and turned down the road to the sea.

 

_One week ago. The Red Dovecote._

“I know my limits,” said Porthos. “I can’t tell d’Artagnan just an itty-bit and not the rest; I’m not a good enough liar. So she can give him her kiss when the quarantine lets out, that’s all.”

“Porthos…”

“You just take all the time you need,” Porthos said, breathless, “until you can look at the both of those two down there and smile, and believe that our girl is coming back safe. Because you know the kid’d do something stupid. You _know_ it. And Aramis doesn’t need something more to fret over right now, Captain, that’s God’s truth too.”

In the yard below Aramis, pale and sweating, saluted d’Artagnan with elaborate flourishes of his mock weapons and the boy bowed, grinning.

 

_Yesterday. The Red Dovecote._

Athos scanned the room that d’Artagnan had been using. Like Aramis’s, the bed was neatly made, the furnishings tidy, and a small pile of money left on the dresser for the maid who swept the floor and laid the fire.

A creak of floorboards, as Porthos loomed behind him. “The cache Aramis was keeping, in the hollow tree outside town, that’s cleared out too,” he said mildly.

“Then they’re gone,” Athos breathed.

“They’re running _to_ something, not away,” Porthos calculated.

“The quarantine camp at Le Havre?”

Porthos shrugged.

 

_This morning. A back road._

He came out of the darkness with a croak and a grumble, already annoyed at sleeping on the hard ground and a bed roll after months of beds and army bunks. D’Artagnan blinked blearily at their camp set neatly under a rock overhang. Half of their gear was already packed up, though a small iron pot of pottage dangled over the little campfire, bubbling merrily.

He looked at the dark figure settled on the other side of the fire, a deeper shadow in the predawn, very still, watching him.

With a rasp in his voice, he asked the man in black, “Are we still going to Paris, Aramis?”

The shadowy man stared at him, expressionless. “I suppose so,” he answered.

**Author's Note:**

> I don’t know whether to apologise or duck for cover
> 
>  _the ‘main-gauche’ in his right hand_ \- the parrying dagger, literally ‘left-hand’, because most fencers would wield it that way.
> 
> **
> 
> Okay, I needed to keep Constance out of play for a while; would you rather I just kept her in a flash flood or a stampede over postage stamps or something? This way she's a hero! (Stop looking at me like that. Please.)


End file.
